


Pitseleh

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, POV Second Person, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do as the devil pleases and give up the thing you love."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitseleh

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: …well. Um. This just grew out of a conversation with viceindustrious. While looking for a title, I was attempting to remember where 'give up the thing you love came from', which should have been obvious as I love that song (song being Pitseleh, by Elliot Smith). And it turns out it fits it disturbingly well.

You hear the door open, and close; after a minute, you remember that you should react to this, and lift your head from a brown study of the floorboards. Coward is standing just inside the door, one hand still resting on the knob. His chin is tilted down, eyes hidden from the gleam of light that usually catches in them, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He's watching you; he's worried.

That's not usual. Coward never worries; it's part of what attracted you to him in the first place. That aura of supreme confidence, even more – the sense that the reason he is never as full of doubt as every other mortal is because he knows something, something that lurks behind those gleaming eyes, behind that smile that is one degree shy of a smirk, balanced on the tip of his tongue to be swallowed again, or maybe – if you manage to impress him enough – told to you.

You wanted to impress him.

He'd end up impressing you.

Terrifying you.

He steps forward, the subtle creaking of his shoes too loud in the hanging silence. He stops mere inches from you; stands, the fingers of one hand twitching slightly, like he wants to raise that hand, wants to - what? Touch you? Why would he restrain himself? You are the one area in which he never shows restraint, a sharp contrast to the rest of his life. If he wants to touch you, he does; kiss you, he does; hit you, he does. And you know him well enough to accept them for what they are, accept the words that no one else will hear, the appetites that no one else is victim to. Accept them as though they are as kind as any kiss, or softly murmured endearment, because they are; and he gives you those as well, at times, but- that's not always what you want from him. What he needs to give you.

Ask any member of that sad little order, and they will say that you are the one with the drive to do anything for power, that you've been doomed since birth with the taint of darkness, that you've no compunctions, no morals, no limits.

Obviously, they've never seen the ruthlessness of Coward, a far more brutal and uncompromising beast than yours.

"Henry," he says, and it's a question, the way he says it, but you haven't the faintest idea what answer he is looking for. You say nothing; no answer is better than the wrong one, and silence is nothing unusual. You're often silent these days. He raises the hand after all, lays two fingers against the ridged mark at your throat. Presses them in, until you can feel it in the back of your throat, feel the hiss of air that isn't quite enough; until you swallow, throat moving against his fingers. It's uncomfortable, but nothing like the tight hold of the noose.

You'd thought it was bad enough, waking in a crypt. Waking among the dead, and that thought is enough to almost make you smile at the irony. Waking in the cool stillness of early morning, although you wouldn't know that until you placed hands flat against the lid of the coffin, pushed up, and they'd been good about making sure it was unlatched. You had jumped at the sound of the rich wood hitting stone, and Coward had laughed, the sound ringing from the stark marble walls. He'd been prepared. Had offered you a hand from your grave, supervised your replacement's interment, pressed you up against one of those cold walls and demanded a kiss for his successes, all with a constant smile that didn't even try to pretend it wasn't a smirk.

Waking in the dark again – that hadn't been terrible. But the moment when you remembered what to do, raised your hands to push away the lid – raised them, and pushed, and nothing happened – that was the moment when your mind stilled into silence. There was a foul taste in your mouth, a wide band of pain around your throat, and a heavy stiffness to your limbs that was distinctly different from that caused by any eastern poison. Your fingers curled against the wood above you as your breath shuddered out, far too loud, far too confined, trapped inside a box inside your lungs. The dark became something alive; dark that doesn't change eyes open eyes closed eyes giving in and seeing things that aren't there that might be there and you could tell if there was any _light_…

When Coward finally opened the lid, your eyes were blanked, fingers tipped with blood. He'd laid a hand on your chest, above your heart, and breathed out a wordless prayer when he felt the reckless, meaningless beat of it. You'd said nothing; there was nothing to say, and that would set the pattern for your reactions from then on.

He'd apologized for his tardiness, his miscalculations, very prettily, but you'd already lost the thread of anger, the taste of terror gone from your mouth for the last time. The damage was done, the change settled in deep as your bones, as though it had always been there, only your own flawed memories of something other giving it away. It was only his second error, but close on the heels of his first; although you knew he'd think it his only error. He didn't realize then what was left behind in the grave when you rose again - whatever it was that drove Henry Blackwood, whatever was left of your humanity, whatever was left of your doubts, laid to rest.

Unlike his, which had just begun to grow.

He pulls his fingers back after you swallow, till they just barely brush skin; lets them fall the short distance to the collar you wear unbuttoned. He's looking for something; something to persuade him, something to stop him, you think, but it may well be too late for that. He can no more be swayed from his path than you can from yours.

He'd asked you, once, not long after your return: "What was it like? Do you remember?" and you'd understood what he wanted to know.

You could not answer him. The silence stretched out, wound out like the dying ticks of a watch; finally, "It was dark," you said.

There must have been something in your tone that kept him from asking more; or maybe it is his own sense of self-preservation that kept him wordless, for you know the inflection had gone out of your voice. "Very, very dark," you added, in the barest whisper, and he turned then, turned and pulled you closer, kissed you like he thought it could burn away the remnants of darkness still in your vision.

You'd thought it would have worked, before.

He still hasn't learned that it no longer works, or hasn't let himself admit it, and tries now. For a moment, you think it might work, his lips pressed against yours, hot and moist, the tang of blood from his mouth, a little bit of life; for a moment, you almost wish it would work, almost wish you could wish for it.

Still, you feel blinded by the shadows in the corners of the room.

He breaks the kiss, sighs into your mouth. Steps back. His lips are reddened, tender looking. "It's very dull," he says, "without you. All of it; I have to step so closely between their lines of acceptable behavior it's hardly worth it." He sighs again, sharp, irritated, and flings himself into a chair with a petulance that is unbecoming. That's more familiar than it should be. There isn't enough to keep him occupied now, and when Coward grows bored … sometimes, you think that is how it all started. That Coward hungers not for power, but distraction; that holding the rule of the land is not as important as the carefully reckless steps and quick sidesteps it takes to get there. You wonder a bit, what he will do once he hold England in his hand; if it will hold his attention, keeping it in one piece – or if he will intentionally crush it to see how it falls apart. To play with destruction.

He's a grand architect; for all that you can produce almost anything he demands, you cannot produce that which is never asked for, never thought of, and his dreams are far greater than any you might conceive. He tells you what will happen, if a certain thing happens, and that _this_ thing must happen for all those afterward to fall into place. That it all hinges upon one factor, and the complexity, the interweaving of distanced threads, the careful consideration he is capable of leaves you astonished, every time; and then – then, he puts it into your hands. Make it happen, he says. I have given you the framework; give me the results. Give me the prize.

He does not say, _Do not disappoint me_; he never has to.

And you don't disappoint. He rewards you for it, but nothing can touch the splinter of envy; that if your mind could slice through all the motivations of the world so easily, offer it up to be played with like God, you would never have needed to make weighted bargains. Would never have drowned in regrets. If Holmes did not possess such a deep loyalty to the crown, you think you might have been overthrown in his favor, for their minds would surely find great pleasure in each other. Even now, Coward smiles with a hint of admiration when Holmes is mentioned.

Coward is watching you still, from his seat, and his brow is furrowed, a dark expression on his face. He looks sulky, displeased; before, you would have wondered if he could somehow see your thoughts, sense the jealousy and possession that burn sharp and vicious when you look at him. Now, however, you know your face shows nothing – even when you want it to, rarely – because the fires that threatened to consume you have been banked low. They smolder still, but you save your passion for different matters.

You step toward him; he looks up, brow smoothing, and you realize that he had been looking through you, lost in some thread of thought. You rest one hand on the back of his chair; he catches the other, curls his fingers into your palm and brings it to his lips. "What were you thinking of?" you ask.

"Sacrifice," he breathes out against the back of your hand. _Sacrifice_. A game you know well.

The greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward; and if the sacrifice is something of yours – if you offer up your pain, your anguish, your memories for tasting – well, then you will be smiled upon indeed. The taste of virgin blood is all good and well, but the taint of someone who gives up of themselves, slides one toe over the line of self destruction, and does it with the knowledge of what payment can be – will be – demanded: that is its own special draught.

Coward knows this, for he has seen it in practice. Had he not watched as you offered the pit everything you had, offered your body and mind and soul? Had he not seen what was given in return? You know he had, and you know there is a great hunger in him, that even terror cannot diminish. He's unaware, or at least you think he remains so, of what else you had offered up, what had given you that last bit of power that, even in the end, was still not enough.

It might have been, if you'd been willing to give up your heart – but there are some sacrifices not worth making.

Not that it matters anymore.

Give up something valued, and you reap grand returns; but give up the thing you love most for the thing you want most – for love and want, and need, are not the same things; Coward loves you, of this you haven't a shred of doubt, and yet still he wants, wants more and more and more with a need that is sharp enough to cut you both, cut the hand that holds it – give up the thing you love most, and it will be taken. Will be taken, and returned made over, made into their vision of what is useful.

To know that the thing – the person – you speak to and see and still, still love every day is not what they were, is not themselves or whole because of your actions, because of your inability to whet your appetites, is to have a knife in your gut; to feel that steady seep of blood that means the end is near, is on the doorstep, is holding your hand, and it is easy to grow to despise the sight of what you love – still, still – to want to do anything that might absolve yourself of guilt, because the intoxicating taste of your gains has faded, has lost it's edge; any addict's lament.

You know this well. You understand the taste of it too well. But Coward does not, because Coward will never remember that he has not always been as he is now. That was part of the agreement.

You'd thought you'd gotten the best of the arrangement.

You can already see the regret in his eyes, some days, when he looks at you. When he remembers what you used to be. You sense the justifications are turning over and over within his mind, wearing away at the guilt and loathing he would have once felt at even thinking such ploys against you. He has more than one foot on that path; Coward does not – cannot – understand what bitter fruits will be waiting for him if he stays to his course. You know that one day you will wake and be – again – something other than you are now, than you were before, and not even know it.

Not be able to regret it, as Coward will grow to. Be able only to see the regret, but not understand it, as you do now.

You have been made anew already, and you do not wish to be again.

Coward stands; "Come to bed," he says to you; drops your hand and walks away. You're meant to follow him; he knows you will. You know you will.

He removes his waistcoat as he walks toward the bed, dropping it to the floor behind him, messy and casual, attempting to shed his worry with his clothes; turns to glance back at you, and his face goes blank in utter astonishment as the bullet hits him, the heavy slug knocking him back. He sprawls across the pale sheets, hands grasping mindlessly as a bloom of red bursts across his chest; spreads, wetly.

You're glad. You would have hated to shoot him in the back: a coward's death, and he deserves better than that.

The pistol suddenly feels so much heavier than it has a right to. Heavy with the weight of your actions, perhaps, as clichéd as it sounds, with weight of responsibility you have just taken on. You remember the first time Coward saw this gun, before it was his; the reverent way he touched it, the naked longing on his face. He hadn't noticed you watching him; when you'd moved, he'd looked up guiltily, then smiled at you, slightly self mocking. Had set it back down and moved on, and you'd been more than a little surprised to find yourself jealous of metal and wood, of seeing it receive the touch of those exquisite fingers.

Two weeks later, it had appeared in a box elegantly inlaid with silver to match on his desk. He'd asked no questions of you, nor spoken any thanks, but the single moment of unguarded expression on his face when he lifted the lid was enough for you.

He stares at you, eyes wide and stunned, already beginning to glaze with shock, lips pressed tightly together against the pain. You walk to the bed, each footstep falling into the space between the breaths forced from his lungs; set the gun on the pillow, and Coward's eyes shift to it, briefly, betrayed. You sit, tucking one leg up under you, and slid your hands under him, pull him closer to you with fistfuls of fabric, until his head is resting, flung back, against your shoulder. You lay a kiss on his temple.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, and he shudders in your arms. "I'm sorry, but you know why I had to." You stroke his hair, fine, soft, tangling round your fingers, and Coward makes a noise, a low moan, deep in his throat. Attempts to raise a hand, as though it's drawn to the stained fabric of his shirt; but it falls back, limply. You reach forward, twine your fingers with his and raise both your hands to his chest, color them with crimson.

He's making harsh, choked sounds in his throat, his shaking growing less violent with each second. "Henry," he manages, barely a breath, incredulously.

"You know I love you," you say. "I can't let you make that choice. It would destroy you, as thoroughly as it ruined me." It's the most words you've said in ages and ages, and each one sits heavier on your tongue, harder to say. Coward's heart is fluttering beneath your hands, and there are tears on his face. You brush your hand across his cheek, wipe them away. "Don't cry, Daniel," you whisper. "It will be better. Trust me, as you always have." He opens his mouth, but the words cannot force their way past the blood that fills it, running out past his lips, down his chin, and he shudders; shudders, chokes, and stills; you lean your head closer to his ear. "I'll follow once I'm done," you reassure him, but his eyes have dimmed. You can only hope that he heard it.

He's hardly a weight in you arms at all, like something more than his spirit has slipped away. You hold him gently, as though it might still cause him pain to be gripped tightly, as though he might still bruise too easily, and you've two days to wait before you can bury him in earth. Longer than that until you can join him; until after his plans have been made truth, until you've destroyed all those who wished to bring him down and placed his name across the sky, on every sinner's tongue, written like a holy word.

It's the least you can do for him.

But it's going to be a lonely wait.


End file.
